Wounds

Inherently loved, unheard; yet felt so deep.
Who believes in wounds unseen?
Those wounds, where the light enters.
The scars that are maps to wonderlands.
Whispers of nightmares that generate only in the darkness.
What matters to them, is what matters to me?
Dreams die before they have to.
Bruised into understanding.
Are the places where the flowers grow.
Shiny eyes and metal hearts.
Soft brains torn apart.
Stitched back together by beautiful lies.
Wounds that seep, that darkness deep.
A gold to the soulless who wish to stay rich.
Forgiveness flies on the back of dark doves.
Heading out to sea to die.

Smartly Dressed Violence (part II)

(Part I here)

The light that was emitted was the blinding kind, the type that strains the back of your eyes, giving you an instant headache. The blue neon glow reflected the watchful and hopeful eyes that clung to it like hungry wolves. In a moment, the room was silent; washed clean and quiet by the light which swayed and swelled around the space like water. Through the silence came little whispers, tiny sound hands that crawled out of the bag along with the light. They were calm and comforting, finding their way all over those in the room. It banished the darkness momentarily, those witnessing a shifting of paradigms; of time and space.

No one had noticed, entrapped in what was taking place, but the younger man had closed his eyes when it had occurred. His eyes were tightly shut, his face screwed up into something which displayed pain and endurance; like suffering a scalding bath. This was not his first time of course, but it never got easier for him. That light, that sweet calming emittance was so tempting, so enticing; yet he couldn’t see it. Not yet.

The light began to fade and the room was filled with a swirling blue mist, a mystical offshoot of what had taken place. The young man approached the bag and rolled back the opening before picking it up. The older man stood next to him still as a statue. The others in the room too did not move either, engulfed it seemed in what had taken place. The younger man knew what occurred of course, each time was the same. The light would come, the feelings descended, their minds would be erased in the moment as the magic took hold. Silence would remain for some time after, the cells inside them re-aligning. He would always depart before they came to. He had stayed once before and could not contend with the questions and the gratitude. It would layer on him like a sticky tar. He wasn’t saving their lives, he wasn’t taking them out of this pit they had found themselves in. It was why he would charge so much, to balance the scales. He wasn’t deserving of their thanks.

He was not their messiah.

The bag, gripped tightly in his hands, made its way along with him out the door and back down the small messy stairway. The sound of the city and the restaurant clattered into his head and he stepped out into the lane where the fresh air and return of time rushed back through his bones. He walked up to the main street where the trams and the traffic had begun to flow faster. Turning right onto William Street he darted past the ‘others’ now, as they had begun to file out of the buildings. He could always feel it worse in the masses, when they would stand next to him at crossings or bump into him on the metro. The science he understood, the magic he knew; but still it made his insides squirm. How they had changed, all from simple choices, from where we had all begun. This ‘othering’ which now encased them.

He sped home faster, keen to get off the streets now. The bag, still in his hand, felt lighter and he gripped it tightly still until he was able to close the door of his apartment high on the 28th floor and place it back into the lobster red containment box he kept on the floor of his wardrobe. With things safely put away, he was able to sit on the floor of his lounge and exhale long and hard. He, Levon the light bringer. A name he hated.


More fables here to unfold

Rush

Humbled, caught in such rapture.
Clinging to joy like a root to a tree.
No longer myself, yet loved still.
Understanding fate’s anatomy.
Chaos now silenced, calm like a church.
We pray in the days that unfold.
Burning them fully like candle wicks of life.
Threatened each day by the wind that is blowing.
From mouths that don’t know how to kiss.
How to love.
Let the world caress, and slice you deeply.
Allowing the wonder-kind to slip in.
Soaking in the blood, underneath your skin.
For these are days of letters unsent.
Of feelings unkempt, not knowing how to unfold.
Now time is falling like sand in a jar.
Borrowed, like a promise never meant to be kept.
And tomorrow is never guaranteed.

The Age

This is the age of collapse.
Of a despair and relapse.
Into ways that god can’t comprehend.
This is the age of not knowing.
Of care and bestowing.
To strangers in need of pretend.
This age is illusion.
Wrapped up in confusion.
For the truth is under your skin.
This age is yours to own.
A lie that can be outgrown.
The escape can be found from within.

Smartly dressed violence (Part i)

The sun had stopped shining now, the wind that had blown in from the east seemingly extinguished the light like a dying candle struggling to survive. The day was young still, yet the streets were empty. People at work, kids in school. The ordinary pluck of the strings of life vibrated through the city. Heavy now with silence, it weighted on his shoulders as he rounded a bend and dived down a graffitied lane, sneaking inside a side door. He carried a small brown paper bag, but its contents; like people, were more precious than the coverings.

“Did anybody see you?” The voice in the shadows asked.

“Nobody ever sees me.” He replied, pulling down his hood.

The other man sighed, seemingly resigned to thinking this was all a game to him. He motioned him to follow as he made his way along a dark corridor. They passed the kitchen of the small Chinese restaurant, and slipped through a door that led up a flight of stairs. The stairway was small and dirty, boxes of cooking oil were stacked on high making it difficult to pass. Foreign labels and battered cardboard, cheap easy food to feed hundreds.

“Are you sure this works, your source is good?” the man asked the younger as he ascended the small flight.

The man in the hoody stopped walking up the stairs, remaining on third step from the bottom.

“Am I wasting my time here?” He asked in reply.

Their eyes caught in the dull light of the stairwell, dying embers of brown met the fiery defiance of hazel. The sound of the streets beyond the walls rung through them, a tram’s bell tinkered off in the distance reminding them of their place deep inside the city. Inside the belly of the beast.

“No, I am sorry. It’s just, they have put all their hope into this.” The older man said, opening his hand in a peaceful gesture.

“Hope is all we have it seems.” The younger man replied, and continued on up the stairs. They both carried on to the top and walked across the landing until they reached a small crowded room that stunk of fried food and desperation. Inside more people than the room should allow seemed to reside in every part. Beds had been stacked on top of each other and bodies filled them, young and old. The middle of the room had an upturned box used as a makeshift table, similar to those he had passed on the stairs, stained with oil from within perhaps. It was covered with food boxes, cups and the faint glow of a phone’s light.

“It is here.” The older man announced, and the people inside the room began to stir. The younger man followed him in and moved towards the small table. He pushed some of the empty boxes onto the floor and then placed the paper bag on top, then stood back. The older man appeared at his side, placing a hand on his shoulder which he flinched to.

“May I?” the older man asked, motioning towards the bag.

“Be my guest.” The young man said and watched as he approached the bag, unfolding the top with his eyes alive like a child’s at Christmas.

Splinter in the soul

We too think we are owed something.
Predisposed to hope and to challenge fate.
Satellites that sweep and coat our hearts with stardust.
Yet life proves us wrong.
Finding only that cycles are cruel.
And others are fundamentally selfish, devoid of right and wrong.
On my heart, are but scars.
Cracks and grooves dug deeper over time.
Trenches of pain valleying, in memories.
As this body craves for a survival, in a world that shuts it out.
And a mind that crashes to understand.
How far we have come.
Whilst the eyes of god close.
And the age dissolves into the past.

The Smoking Nun

God’s grace, bathed in divine light.
Casting gold over cracking skin and fallen vows.
The vessel inside, so empty at the beginning.
Now overflows like a cup of human kindness.
What troubles does she have at the seat of the saints?
What ails her heart that cannot be soothed?
Sweet words from Jesus must mend the wound.
She smiles at a knowing, a celestial secret.
Whispered to her in the musky wooden rooms of god.
All this is but temporal.
All pain is marginal.
Your being is relative to the consciousness you invoke.
So why does she smoke?

Little Red Thread

Managing to bite the apple, split the seeds.
Cast to the wind.
You carve across my heart, splitting and cracking it.
Rupturing it in ways that leave me shaking.
What silent alarms are these?
What pretty little scars.
Spun around your finger, little red threads.
That you weave and place across the chasm.
Pulling my shattered heart together.
Binding it with yours.
You pierce through with the hot needle of love.
Cleansed with whisky and spit.
Woven a forever deep into that failing organ.
Heaving it, healthier, into tomorrow.
The little red thread which you now keep in your pocket.
Always there to keep us together.
To pull as to, when we think we’re breaking.

Abundance

S. K. Nicholas

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With a heave and a grunt, she bends her knees and jumps into the air. Her lanky arms wrap around the branch above us, and with the nimble agility of a cat, she pulls herself up. As she does so, Hachikō licks and slobbers over her face. This annoys her considerably, as Hachikō still has the scent of fish guts and sick on his breath, but she doesn’t lose her temper. Instead, she balances herself and pats him on the head. She then calls him a swear word, but in the most affectionate of ways. It’s one of her Japanese ones; something I’ve not previously heard, or been called. Not to my knowledge, anyhow. The sky is pale. Not as pale as the moon, but not far off. The stars that were barely visible before we began climbing are now glistening diamonds the size of coins. They twinkle like the…

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Tracks – poetry

alifelesslived

train ride home – cold December day 2018

Icy cold droplets

Biting the air
Corroding our attention
of each other

Tracks dripping

After fallen waters cease
Details washed
Irrevocably

and in the cold air

your hand reaches for mine

warmth seeps in reassuringly

Link to my Ebooks on my homepage.

©Gina@alivelesslived
Trust you heart if the seas catch fire ~ e.e cummings

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Odd-fellow

Silently he sits, as his eyes cross the room.
The breeze flutters in, rustling the magazines and small talk.
Chatter and buzz, tea and coffee cups.
A man joins at his side, greeting no one.
Shaking hands with only his past.
The smile on both, reaches around.
Unsettles the young, but comforts the knowing.
Clothes dishevelled. Hair uncombed.
The smudges on their glasses irritate no one.
They are alone in their memories.
Caring not for the call to eat.
Or the call of nature.
Held captive by a guest never welcomed in.
But tantalises them with sugar coated histories.
And kisses of those already dead.
They are friendly, but lost.
Vacant in their static.
Soon they will be put to bed.
Tucked in with their nightmares and stained sheets.
Yet these men are like astronauts, time travellers and heroes.
They survive what we will never see.
Only odd, to a world which purifies.
And wishes to erase what it doesn’t understand.

The Bedite Borrows

Harley Holland

No matter how much we cleaned the rooms and scrubbed the floors I could never escape that jittering restlessness I had as a child when visiting my grandad. Outside of the semi-detached castle my memories of him are cherished. Sitting at the head of the table at the pubs we would visit for Sunday roast, letting his hand get wet from the frosted glass of his second Guinness in his paws, as he played babysitter and the fool. But inside his castle, amongst all his familiar things, the mask would drop. I could never escape that feeling of unease since he slapped me. After that when visiting I would sit still on the edge of the sofa. Accept a biscuit and cup of tea. Tell him how school – college – work was.  Then wait for that thirty minutes to go by before I made my excuses. He’d nod and…

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Execution by evolution

Your ideologies hang by a tangled thread.
6,000 years of life they said.
Yet in the ground and in the tar.
Lies the truth (will out) like god’s memoir.
To bring about his own destruction.
For amber shows of life’s reduction.
And kills those narrow minded thoughts.
By adding to the six, a lot more noughts.

Seahorse

The Saturn rings look like halos above you.
Don’t move, you look divine.
Around your feet the seahorses play, kicking up moon dust memories.
You find me, deep down in the Mariana trench, decaying like an old wreck.
Do not ask me to play hide and seek now, I do not know the universe as well as you.
1, 2, 3, 4…..Comets shoot across my sky, turning the blackness to fire.
I’m blinded and momentarily lost.
You paralyse me with your tongue, licking sweet sensations.
Then flicking me with words that sink in, deep into the bloodstream.
My nakedness parades in full as I stroll across the moon.
Swim to the ocean floor, swim forever more in the sea that seems beyond tranquil.
8, 9, 10….ready or not.
You found me, just north of Neptune wearing my own crown.
You say it suits you better, everything always does.
I diminish in ill-fitting clothes of the emperor. Falling into threadbare solitude.
Will the trident ever be tested? How much blood needs to flow into these craters to satisfy?
Throw me back to the tide and cast your net further afar.
Let the oceans pull you away, so I never let you plunge my Atlantis into dismay.
My pyramids will be forever mine alone, a place I can go to weep and smile.
Watching the earth follow the moon.

Theatre for god

A vantage point appears.
Sweet retrograded development.
The circle of a life, returning to where it came.
Return to shed some skin.
Dispose a sin that was trapped like a bird in a cage.
These lungs are full of alpine air.
Yet the breath is that of god.
With eyes that shine with a light of a creator.
Marvelling at his own work.
To motion an intent, is to peel back the curtain.
To slip inside the mind, is to speak another truth.
Barefoot and broken, weathered and open.
The state does not matter, for the audience can no longer see.
All this is for God, and sweet mother earth.
Rumbling in a third act that threatens a resolve.
But let us speak not of happy endings or peace.
The story is still unwritten. And the parts have yet to be filled.
What is known of the end, is that it starts a new beginning.
For we live to hear the sound of god’s applause.

Seismic Activity (cataclysmic love)

Raw Earth Ink

In the morning she lay, peaceful as she did, the grasses and trees which took root within her skin stretched toward the sun. The verdant greens of fresh life covered her and she rested, calm.

She felt a breeze run across her hilltops and she shivered. A downward pressure and a shift in temperature. The breeze gusted and became a gale as the sky darkened above her. She shivered again, more violently.

An explosion of movement as birds of every size and color burst aloft. She raised her arm in an attempt to silently call them back. A yawning abyss opened. Many four-legged creatures were swallowed. The sky became darker and then a FLASH! and a deep rumbling.

The birds flew fast. She saw the whites in the eyes of the deer. Rabbits burrowed deeper. Foxes ran. She turned to stop them from fleeing, begging them to take solace in…

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Sparkle

Placing hands on such skin.
Wishing to dive right in.
And swim, in the soul full of diamonds.
I broke you out amber.
Pulled away the tar and thick oil.
Which stained my hands and heart.
One kiss pulls me under.
One word lifts me up.
The vibrations are clear, and stardust tells no lies.
For heaven assumed.
Once prayed and pried out of the sky.
I hold and cherish like a precious jewel.
Sparkle.
Dazzle.
And blind the light which banishes the dark.
Such unearthed treasure.
I keep you inside my bones.
To keep away the cancer.

Howl

Simple static in my veins.
Tears tumbling with the rains.
And inside the heart, a wooded growl.
Of a beast kept chained, a tempered howl.
With lungs that heave in kisses fleeting.
And souls that take ungodly beatings.
From love’s sad battles and passion’s war.
Washing up on forgiveness shore.
Soaking wet and freezing cold.
Left by a love grown tired and old.
Yet in the beast there’s lies a spark.
To ignite the cave and banish the dark.
And once more take a hopeful view.
That love saves the day.
And that I still have you.

Grand design

Running from the moment.
Away from such seeping pain.
Setting sights on the hills, disappearing into completely.
Far from you now, though I see you from up here.
Up into the rains and the breath of the mountain.
I stand on the edge and look up. The black rain falls on my face.
I swallow the sky and spit out the stars.
Raining them down upon you.
I stay here far too long, until I no longer know who you are.
Memories hang off me like vines in the amazon.
The animals of self-loathing crawl in these branches.
Tears fall that weld me to the stone. Moss begins to grow over my flesh.
I could not keep the promise I made.
A funeral procession trundles up the path below.
Laying rest to a soul who knew nothing but how to leave.
Their final exit, left all with destruction behind as they now carry his bones skyward.
I watch and listen to their dirges. Only I am to blame.
God help him.
God help me as I learn to say goodbye.

Interstellar insights

The world opens, the moon shines down like a second sun.
Highlighting the scars of the earth.
I sense you and smell the enthusiasm.
Every day is mine to win, each interaction a snapshot in time.
It’s not how we fall, but how we stand that matters.
The heart of the matter.
The rub, the centre; the deep filled gooey splatter of time.
Stretching away like a blurring desert.
I step stone towards the unknown, letting go of uncertainty.
Restriction dropping, heart opening foolishness of youth and wisdom.
I pull you out of the cave, bring you into the light.
Dazzled by your brilliance, and mesmerised by sight.
Too long have we lingered on the dark side of the moon.
Freezing in the ill commitment to abstain.
Come, take my hand and let us drink in the solar flares. Turn the moon to gold.
Get high on the mercury rising and dance into the fire, singing our solar song.

Ruin

Blaze the craze which rips through the world.
Such times to be alive.
Born from the birds which fly south for winter.
Pecking at the moon.
Which idea is now spun from younger lips?
For children withhold such commitment.
We welcome you to the future.
Putting your ear to the soil to hear the earth murmur.
A wailing in the wind and the wild.
A sorrow swimming in the sea.
Yesterday holds up such devastation.
Sugar coat that history, and open up forever.
Cough out lies across your coffee cups.
But listen to no one.
Wipe the heathens across the walls.
A boy, a girl caught in such crossfire.
Scrub those bloody hands, that crimson mark.
Fading from red to orange.
Another one. Another one, another one.
Falls.
As the world turns and burns.
Points of no return, distant in the mirror now.

Subside & soar

Falling down the waterfall, shaken out of grace.
Sliding, spiraling and collapsing. Leaving nothing but a trace.
Tumbling down speedily, in disgust from your eyes.
Crawling out of this bitter, purgening demise.
Escaping into nothingness, fleeing into dreams.
Tasting the fruit of freedom. Splitting from the seams.
Moving now a certain way, to expand these wings.
Unfurling fraying feathers, precious aerodynamic things.
Falling once again, from ledges beyond time.
Saying goodbye to shadows, and the ghosts that haunt this mind.
Realisation of collapse, braking bark from the knowledge tree.
Not a sad solitary boat of sand, on your egotistical sea.
I fully bow out, take my leave now and resign.
Plunging into tomorrow knowing, I must fall to begin the climb.

Author in review ‘Xavier Pérez-Pons’

 

If you have free time and are looking for something different, check out the mind extractions of Xavier Pérez-Pons. Some very interesting works and some short humorous pieces on his blog.

My two recommendations would be:

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You can find his books on Amazon.
His presence on Goodreads.
And is soul is his own.

 

Universe to devour

Dreams ignite like a Chagall construction.
You and I, flying over rooftops. Exploding in colour.
I lay you down and crawl into your skin.
Kissing you intimately, feeling my way.
Your body entices and your heart entraps.
Yet it is your soul I’m after.
The bruised, damaged, fraying thing.
Shaking and asking to have life breathed in.
Frantically unable to be cupped in my hands.
It runs from me like a feather on the breeze.
Escaping like a Bharatanatyam movement.
Colours and light, burning my sad lonely grey into nothing.
Love on your fingertips, sticky from the centre of me.
Though this may be transitory, I give in and go under.
Falling for you again as the waves crash over.
Disappearing in such wonder and the perfumed smoke of you.
Coughing up clouds of devotion, and descending like the setting sun.